


Very British

by allsorrowsborne



Series: A Feeling, Undefined [1]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Drug Use, F/F, Masturbation, Pain, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:15:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23822185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsorrowsborne/pseuds/allsorrowsborne
Summary: Eve thinks about Villanelle's spice shop kill.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: A Feeling, Undefined [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743235
Comments: 18
Kudos: 65





	Very British

**Author's Note:**

> My quick thoughts on the photograph from season 3, episode 2.

You sit on the bed cross-legged with the bottle of tablets in your hand. You shouldn’t take another one. Not after the wine. But one is rarely enough, and the wine will help you wash it down. Besides, it says it on the bottle. _One to two tablets as needed for pain_. You push and twist the childproof cap. Two Vicodin fall into your hand. Fuck it.

You drink. You swallow. You wait.

Once, there was a different room with different pills to swallow. You do not want to think about that. So, you don’t.

\---

At lunchtime, you threw a coke can into the shrubbery. You should have thrown it at Carolyn instead. She had nothing new to tell you. Nothing that you didn’t know. But knowing is one thing and seeing is another. A photograph is something else.

You’ve always had a thing for photographs.

You want to see it again. The open mouth and twisted neck. You want to touch the dark hair dusted light. Rub your thumb on cracked lips. A death too dry.

It stayed with you all day, an unsettled feeling that vomit didn’t clear. _Did she think of you as she poured the powder? Who does she perform for now?_

You should not let those thoughts in. You should not.

\---

You keep it buried. You cannot go back. You cannot be her fan without consequence. You cannot pin her photographs onto your wall. You cannot hunt her with intrigue and want.

You cannot have anything other than this.

This is what you get for being stupid. This is what you fucking get.

\--

The pain is constant. It wakes you in the morning, drops you into days that you are not ready to enter, drenched in sweat at five a.m. It locks you into a body that is always cold. It gets worse with the wrong kind of movement. All of your movements are wrong.

The doctors tell you it is expected. A bullet through the brachial plexus. The misfiring of damaged nerves. You feel things that are no longer there. Fragments of bone. A bullet. Her.

Ghost pain. A medical fact.

You should not imagine otherwise. You should not.

\--

Your imagination took over in the hospital. Oxycodone and Xanax aided its flight. You thought she had saved you. You thought she had come for you. You saw her once, at the foot of your bed. Whispering threats – _I should have shot you in the head and watched you die_ – whispering love – _I cannot stop thinking about you_. You were so high; you were so open. The nurse adjusted your drip.

You are not here because she chose your survival. You are here because she has shitty aim.

You hate her. You miss her. You are so fucking stupid.

You wait for your pills to hit.

\---

They do.

The room goes in and out of focus. You stroke the hairs on the back of your arm. Fuzziness akin to softness. You are here and nowhere at the same time.

You lie back on the bed. Your mouth falls slightly open. You pretend you are the body in the photograph, your head tilted back, your chin jutted forward. You could be in ecstasy. You are not.

You imagine her hands in your armpits pulling you hard across the floor. You watch her tip the bag of spice, like dirt onto a coffin, like sprinkles onto a cake. She covers your eyes. You cannot see her. You cannot reach her. Untouchable.

You cannot.

\---

You cannot. You should not. You do.

You slide your hand down the front of your boxers. You do not feel pleasure. Only shame. It is not enough to make you stop.

You sink deeper into the pillow. You sink fingers deeper into yourself. Your body responds as it always does. Fierce and desperate. Your gut twists and hips jerk. You fuck yourself roughly with urgent fingers, not knowing, not caring, how it might hurt. You twist abruptly and your shoulder blade throbs.

From somewhere, you feel her arm around your back. Her head leans against your hair. You hear her rapid breathing in your ear. She comes quickly, gasping your name. You know how she sounds. When she threatens. When she laughs. You know.

One day she will move from your memory, climb through your window, end what she started with bare strong hands. Until then, your own hand will do.

You move faster to rub out the shame. Your body tenses. Her thumb brushes something from your eye. It takes longer when you’re high, but still it happens. You spit her name and come. There is no falling from a cliff edge of pleasure. You are already broken, sprawled on the rocks.

It feels better than it should.

You pull out your fingers. You stare at the stickiness. They are dark with the start of this month’s blood. You wipe them half-heartedly on the sheet. You sleep.

\---

In the morning, you see it crusted on your fingernails. You remember what you did. You push it aside. You get up, shower, dress, and leave.

Outside, you wait for the bus.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know your thoughts and come hang out with me on twitter @olderthaneve


End file.
